CHAPTER 263: CHAPTER 264: VICTIMS

Blam’s throat rasped against Atlas’s grip.

{...noo...I...I...I wa...I was...}

The words bled out half-formed, cracking in his mouth like splinters. He wanted to speak. He wanted to explain. But the sheer intensity of Atlas’s gaze shook him apart from the inside.

It wasn’t just fear—it was something deeper, something marrow-deep. It ladled into his core, scraping at the sludge of his being, seeping through the cracks of his coward’s heart until nothing remained but the raw taste of terror.

Blam knew the truth.

If Atlas wanted—he could burst him like a balloon. Not by claw. Not by spell. Not even by brute strength. No—the man’s will alone could detonate him, could crush the very idea of Blam’s existence until there was no stain left in the air.

Was he afraid of death? Perhaps. But that wasn’t what coiled icy around his chest.

No. He had worse things in mind.

"Unholy death."

The phrase flickered across his thoughts like fire across dry parchment.

Demons don’t die. They never do. Their bodies break, their shells rupture, their essence scatters—but always, in time, they claw their way back. Sometimes as themselves, sometimes less—but they return. Always.

But...

When a higher demon kills you, they don’t just shred your flesh. They strike at the impurity in your soul. They peel you down to the bare nerve of your existence, rip away the rot you clung to, and leave you gasping, diminished.

De-evolution. That was the price. A lord of fire becoming a crawling ember. A prince of slaughter reduced to a maggot writhing in shadow until enough centuries pass, until enough blood is drunk, until enough whispers answer.

That fate alone was terror enough. But worse still...

Only Demon Lords could truly grant a final death.

The essence of a Lord burned too pure, too perfect in its hell-born origin. When they cut you down, it wasn’t just defeat. It was rejection. Hell itself spit you out, as though your existence were too foul even for its pits. That was annihilation. A stain wiped from eternity.

Blam had heard whispers of something beyond even that. A horror seldom spoken, written only in the ’Book of the Damned.’

The legend of the One Below All. The father of endings. The Avatar that could unmake not just body, not just soul, not just memory—but the very right of your existence to have ever been. If killed by that hand... then nothing. Not even the whispers would remain. Not even the shadows would recall.

Blam’s mind reeled, and terror slicked his eyes. He thought he glimpsed that possibility, that abyss, flickering in Atlas’s gaze. And that broke him more than the hand at his throat.

Then—another hand touched Atlas’s wrist.

Azezal.

His movements were careful, not daring to pry—only presenting his hand, like a shield interposed against lightning.

{Lord... Guide... Atlas... please. Hear him out a bit.}

His voice was calm, but Blam caught the tension beneath it, the crackling note like glass underfoot. Azezal wasn’t pleading for mercy. He was pleading for control—to not let this tilt into disaster.

Atlas’s eyes flicked to him, still sharp, still dangerous.

Azezal glanced at Blam, who could barely form sound now. His throat quivered but no words came.

{...Let me speak for him.} Azezal said. His voice was steadier now. {We can all go to the Third Realm. But...}

There it was. That cursed word.

The but.

Every demon deal had one. A miracle, an offer, a gift sweeter than honey—and then the but. The clause. The dagger. The chain.

Atlas’s jaw tightened. "But?" His voice carried no flame now, only the weary iron of a man tired of being lied to, tired of having to drag the truth from cowards.

{...No.} Azezal’s voice firmed. His chest lifted. {We will. No—I will take you. Oh, Lord Atlas.}

The words fell like stone.

Blam’s eyes widened, tears fogging their surface. Even he hadn’t expected it. Azezal—the cautious one, the careful one—staking his own essence in vow. That wasn’t rhetoric. That was chain-binding.

Blam trembled harder. His body wanted to object, to fight, to scream. His lips struggled to shape Azezal’s name.

{Aze...Zale...} he croaked, shaking.

But Azezal only nodded. Slowly. Firmly. Giving him a signal, small but unmistakable.

’It will be okay.’

It was a lie. Blam knew it. But in that moment, he needed it to be true.

{...Let’s just wait for one more day. Atlas. Just one more day.}

The plea hung in the air like smoke.

Atlas’s eyes cut sideways to Aurora. Her presence was the steadying weight against his fury, the tether that reminded him he wasn’t wholly consumed. She nodded once, silent but resolute.

So Atlas lowered his hand.

Blam crumpled to the stone floor, choking, clutching his throat, air rasping in and out like knives. His knees smacked the stone and stayed there.

Atlas gave no more words.

But in his silence, the pressure of his will remained—a storm waiting above Blam’s skull, a silent warning that the reprieve was razor-thin.

.

.

.

Claire’s mansion.

The air was heavy. Not with heat, but with tension. The kind of silence that presses against the ears until even breath sounds too loud.

Henry and the other guests were gone, scattered to their duties and schemes. All that remained was the prisoner.

Claire’s responsibility. Claire’s burden.

She had spoken it herself: if the wretch attempted escape, she would end her. Not hesitate. Not falter. End her.

Henry hadn’t objected. He was buried in his own wars—the quiet, cruel wars of politics. The battle of whispers and signatures, of knives sheathed in velvet, but knives all the same.

Claire stood before the remnants of the portal.

The stone arch still bore red smudges of Aurora’s markings, half-visible, half-fading. They pulsed faintly, like dying embers clinging to warmth. The scent of sulfur lingered.

She inhaled sharply.

"...Haaa..." Her breath slipped into a bitter laugh. "Fuck you, Atlas."

Her heels clicked against the marble as she turned back into her mansion, but the curse lingered behind her, echoing off stone.

Of course she was furious. But the fury wasn’t clean. It burned tangled with grief, with self-betrayal.

She had honed her skills for years. Her tongue sharpened like a blade—for seduction, for manipulation, for control. She had wielded charm like a weapon, bent men and kings alike.

And yet... now it felt like nothing. Like trying to carve a mountain with a pin.

She had her noble blood. Her family. Her wealth. Her power. Even the king himself measured words in her presence. And still... still she felt small.

"This all means nothing... nothing." Her voice cracked against the walls.

Her chest tightened as her gaze fell back—back toward the place where Hell had torn through.

Even thinking of it made goosebumps rise across her arms. That abyss, that stench of forever. And Atlas—he had dived there. Dove as if into water. Without hesitation.

Her throat tightened.

And then the memory—the sting she couldn’t tear away.

Before he released her from his Law, he had kissed her.

A simple thing. A brush of lips to cheek. But the warmth of it lingered, still. An affection that she hadn’t asked for, hadn’t expected, hadn’t earned—but it had branded her anyway.

It haunted her.

It made tears prick her eyes again.

Because in that kiss she had felt something no words could counterfeit.

And when she realized what she had lost—when she saw herself left behind as he descended—her knees buckled.

She fell to the floor, sobbing, slamming her fists again and again into marble, as if breaking her own skin could erase the weakness, the shame.

Weak. That was the word screaming inside her. Weak enough that he thought she would hold him back. Weak enough that he chose to leave her behind.

The sound of a door creaking broke her spiraling thoughts.

Her office.

The ash-haired bitch sat there, unbothered, in her chair.

Claire wiped her face, fury flooding back to armor her grief.

"Attempting to escape?" Her tone was venom.

The other woman’s lips curled faintly. "...Oh, you wish. Oh, how you wish I escape. Get out of here. Get out of Atlas’s hair."

Claire’s nails dug into her palm. "Any leads?"

Silence.

That silence was its own answer.

Claire’s voice darkened. "That old man. The greatest mage of humanity... he still can’t open the portal?"

The reply came, sharp as glass. "...Your princess is helping him."

Claire froze. "...Lara?"

"Yeah. Old man says she has talent. Enormous talent. Like Atlas himself."

Pride stirred in Claire’s chest despite herself. But she didn’t let it show. Couldn’t.

The Roxwelds had always been different. A bloodline touched with brilliance—whether in battle, in strategy, or in magic. And now... now the kingdom itself was marked by genius. Atlas and Lara. Not mere talent. Not mere prodigies. World-mending. World-breaking.

A golden age. Or the spark before ruin.

Claire’s gaze sharpened, cutting across the woman before her. A test. A challenge.

"You... why do you even like him?" The words hissed through clenched teeth. She was sick of masks, of pretenses.

The woman didn’t look up from her book. "...He is... special."

"That’s not enough." Claire’s voice cracked against the veneer. "I also know he’s special. That’s not it. Why do you really... I mean really love him?"

At last, Eli’s eyes lifted. Slowly. Fully. Meeting hers without evasion.

And she spoke.

"...It’s because..."

The words trembled at the edge of revelation.

And Claire felt her chest seize—because she needed to know.